Nod Ghosh

The Better of Her (December 1, 2017) He reaches across the table and brushes his finger ever so gently on the scar over her eye. The wail of a string quartet lulls Marguerite into a state of contentment. She rubs the knotty lumps on her eyebrow. A candle flickers in its circular holder, as she sips from her wineglass and smiles at him, taking in his river-blue eyes. The restaurant is busy, but not crowded. There's the clink of cutlery, occasional laughter, and the warmth of conversation.The scar. It doesn't seem to bother him. He almost likes her more for it. Was it really ten months since the fall? The day that changed her life? Marguerite wonders if the hair will ever grow back over the silvery line she now fills in with eyebrow pencil. It doesn't matter if it won't. The scar is a token of her luck changing.She stabs a spear of asparagus with her fork, dips it in something yellow and delicious, and then takes another sip of wine. It happened ten months ago, in January. Marguerite remembers stumbling on the gravel in Noonan Park. Splat. She'd landed badly. Blood had trickled from her brow to meet her eye. Her vision was smeared when she reached over to investigate the wallet that had tripped her up. Smooth black leather. Capacious. The sort of thing she imagined someone with big hands would use. Big purposeful hands. Marguerite had walked to a bench and pulled a pack of Kleenex from her back pocket. She pressed onto her eyebrow. The wallet sat on the bench beside her. A woman pushing a pram jogged past at the speed of light. She looked serene. The woman was barely sweating. Marguerite had thought about when she'd told Ben she wanted a child one day. Maybe two. "I struggle to keep myself together," he'd laughed in the warmth of her bed. "Don't think I could care for a kid as well." He'd made it all about him, and they'd not had that conversation again. Marguerite pulled the tissue away, its whiteness stained with crimson blooms. She pulled a fresh one from the pack and swabbed the cut again. It hurt. Soon the cut was only oozing a thin pink fluid. She was about to chuck the spent tissues under the bench. Two old ladies in shorts stopped to ask if she was all right. "I'm fine thanks," she said, and slipped the bloodied wad into the sleeve of her top instead. She waited until they waddled out of sight before opening the wallet. Four compartments, one zippered. She pulled it open, to release a clutch of coins. Maybe there was something with an address or phone number. She slipped her fingers into another section. A fat wad of notes peeped out. Unfamiliar greys and greens. Hundred-dollar notes. All of them were hundred-dollar notes. There were so many of them. Marguerite looked around. She was alone. She forced the wallet closed. To hell with going for a run! Her life had just changed. She turned around and headed straight back with the wallet tucked into the elastic of her shorts. She could almost feel its insistent heartbeat against her skin, like the thing had a life of its own. In the changing room, Marguerite shied away from Nancy, who clucked over her wound like a mother hen. "You might need something on that, honey." Nancy placed her finger over Marguerite's eye. It made her wince. "I'll be fine," Marguerite forced a smile and turned away, pushed a leg into her jeans. She wrapped her running gear around the wallet, threw it in her bag and walked out. Running after work was part of Marguerite's new regime. She needed to look good. She was drinking less, eating sensibly, and trying to get her finances in order. Her plans included giving up on no-hopers like Ben, to let a proper boyfriend step in, a real man who would look after her instead of it being the other way round. But maybe she'd have a celebratory bottle of wine tonight. Tonight, she felt lucky. On the bus, Marguerite visualised the wad of cash, and tried to guess how much she had. How much did she owe on her credit cards and store accounts? It didn't matter. There was so much in the wallet. It was bound to cover everything. Perhaps she'd have some left over. Maybe she could stop off at the mall and get that cute pair of red heels she'd tried on last Saturday? But something got the better of her. She stayed on the bus until her stop. It was raining when Marguerite let herself into the apartment. She pulled out a pile of papers from behind the clock on the mantelpiece. Bills, final demands and notices from bailiffs. She opened the wallet. Oddly, there were no bank or credit cards, just a dry-cleaning ticket and a photograph of a man with an old woman. The woman had wrinkles around her eyes, but the blue in them was just like his. The sort of eyes Marguerite liked. Perhaps she was the man's mother? They both had almond-shaped faces. She liked the curve of his face too. Marguerite had pushed the photo back in with a tinge of regret. She almost missed the business card with his name on it.

Michael Hampton Attorney​ His number and e-mail beneath. She pushed the card back in and counted the cash. There was more than she'd thought. She went through her papers and made a list. There was enough to pay everything off. There would be enough for those cute red shoes. And more. Her phone rang. "Hi, honey." It was Ben. He rang every night, even though she'd not seen him for a week. She needed space. Time to decide whether there was room for him in her life. "Can you lend me fifty, Margs?" "When can you pay me back?" Ben was unreliable, but there was something about his roguish smile and those eyes that Marguerite found hard to resist. "Oh, you know. Soon." How much had she poured into Ben over the years? She scribbled dollar signs on the notepad she'd been using. She needed to finish the call. There were things to do. "You'll never pay me back, will you?" She tore the page off the pad, and began to shred it. "You won't, because you never do." "Aw go on Margs, I will this time. Promise." His voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "You can afford it, Margs. It's payday soon isn't it?" "That's not the point, Ben," she said, "I could lend you the money." She almost told him about her lucky find, but something got the better of her. "Then do it." There was a petulant edge to his voice. "I could lend you the money, but I'm not going to." She was shaking as she spoke. "I'm going to be straight with you, Ben, because honesty is the best policy." "You don't − " "I don't want to do this any more." "Do what?" "Us." "Us?" "It's over. Goodbye," she'd pushed her words out, not allowing him to interrupt. "Don't ring me anymore."Yes. Honesty is the best policy, she'd thought. Marguerite took the phone again, and pulled out the business card. Michael Hampton. Attorney. Perhaps they could meet and-−perhaps. Maybe. She clinks her glass against his, and taps her feet on the cross bar. Marguerite is wearing the red heels tonight. He smiles at her, and she takes in the oval of his face. They exchange snippets about their day. She gazes into his eyes. She's always loved those eyes. This is the second time they've been out for dinner this week. She looks at his hands, his big hands, and then looks at her own. She imagines a ring on her finger. Perhaps this could be the night? She stops fiddling with the scar on her brow, and cringes as she remembers how she nearly did the wrong thing. In the end though, something got the better of her. She thinks about how different her life could have been if she'd made a bad choice in January. He leans over and kisses her. "I'm going to the restroom." His voice is flushed with wine and the promise of things to come. "You get the check and I'll call us a cab." She hesitates for a second. You get the check. Nothing more? Had she imagined it? Did she want her life to change so badly that she'd seen only what she wanted to? Still, these things can't be rushed. She reaches for her purse, and the picture of the man and his mother falls out. She lights a corner of it in the candle's flame, watches it burn. There's only a wisp of smoke left when he returns from the bathroom. Marguerite looks into Ben's eyes. She's always loved his eyes.